Sea Bound
by Sam Winchester's Shoe
Summary: When John and his crew are taken over by pirates, he expected them to be ruthless and cold-hearted. But he never expected to meet Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock has been taking over ships for years, but he had never felt anything for any navy crew before meeting John Watson. AU Sherlock.
1. Chapter 1

The first time John had gotten roped into being first officer of the Gloria Scott, he had gotten bloody kidnapped by pirates, along with the the rest of the crew. As he sat in the dank, dark decks of their captors ship, he couldn't help but think of how he could have prevented this misfortunate.

It had been earlier that morning, the air had been thick with fog which made visibility next to nothing. The winds had been so strong that he had ordered the crew below deck. Being first officer and doctor, he had some power on board. The captain had been in low spirits within the last few weeks since leaving port, and he wasn't usually the man to have a negative outlook on things. But with the Gloria Scott heading to northern Africa in a bloody war, the journey seemed hopeless.

"Stamford, man the helm." The captain barked over the gusts.

Mike Stamford was the ship's second officer, and tended to be there right when you needed him. "Yes sir!" He called back as he rushed to take the wheel and relieve another soldier from his duty.

"Watson-" John walked over to where the captain was standing near the bow of the ship.

"Sir?"

He didn't speak for awhile. Just standing there motionless, watching the waves ram against the hull. "I have a feeling we won't reach the desert in one piece John." The captain turned to him, a look of worry on his face that chilled John's blood. He couldn't even register that he had called him by his first name. "I- I just want to know that if anything happens-" he sighed. "You'll be there for the crew."

"Sir?" John hadn't a clue what to say besides that.

The captain looked him in the eye before smiling. "I'm just expressing my worry. It's only a gut feeling, and I rarely get those. Probably just that blasted soup." He chuckled. "I'll have to have a little word with the cook."

John remained speechless. He had never seen the captain like this before. "You know, I'd always figured I'd become someone important in the military. But not this. Not a captain of a ship in her majesties navy." He sighed quietly while gazing out at the churning black water below. "Did you expect to be here Watson?"

"No sir-" John said without hesitation, and it was the truth. He was supposed to be back in London, at St. Bart's hospital, diagnosing people. Not here on a ship heading to combat. He wasn't even officially trained to fight. He had received some measly training from a few of the officers before the Gloria Scott had left port and had started sailing toward war. It was minuscule training at best, but it was better than nothing, especially compared to what he would have had before he was drafted: just a license in medicine, able to diagnose patients at will. A boring private life with no friends, and a family he wouldn't bother to communicate with anyway.

"Something troubling you Watson?" He blinked and looked up at the captain.

"No sir, sorry."

"Oh that's alright. I used to do the same, was always drifting off, without a care in the world." He sighed. "So do you have a girl back home?"

"What?" "Well I would imagine that the girls would be falling over themselves trying to chase after you. A doctor, a soldier. There's not much else that could make you a better catch for the ladies,"

"Oh," John cleared his throat. "Yeah, I suppose-"

"So do you?"

"No, no I don't." He said a touch too quickly. The captain looked at him a moment before looking back at the churning waters below.

"I imagine you'll probably want to get some sleep Watson, we'll be landing tomorrow with any luck."

"Well, actually, I haven't been sleeping well sir," he glanced back at Stamford. "So I wouldn't mind actually taking over-"

"By all means. Stamford!" He bellowed over the rush of the wind. "Go bellow! Get some rest!"

"Yes sir!" The man at the helm called back.

"I'll see you in the morning Watson."

"Sir-" John said before he could stop himself. "What you said before about not reaching-" he stopped himself. "You didn't actually mean that did you?"

The captain paused a moment before opening his mouth to speak. "No, I-" he sighed. "I didn't mean to to frighten you John, just expressing some concern of mine. I thought I would let you know rather than keep you in the dark."

John nodded. "Alright, thank you."

"Is that all?"

"Yes sir-"

"Then goodnight,"

"Goodnight sir," John watched as the captain walked off in the direction of his quarters before he took the helm from Stamford. The second officer left with a slight nod of his head before John was completely alone.

§

He should have paid closer attention, as they sailed through the night with the whipping winds and raging waves. He should have white knuckled the wheel instead of dozing off, but off course he didn't. That was his first big mistake.

The next was letting his bloody guard down. Before he knew what hit him, he had a gag wrapping over his mouth, his eyes snapping open as he tried to fend off the attacker, but more arms encircled his as they bound his wrists and ankles. He couldn't even cry out to warn his crew. He saw men with well worn clothes, knives and swords hanging from their belts, and earrings dangling from every ear. Pirates.

Pirates were taking over his ship.

Hot boiling rage coursed through John's body, causing him to rip himself from the men who were holding him. He launched himself down the deck stairs that led to the living decks below, but before he could even place a hand on the hatch, a hand yanked him backward by the collar of his jacket. He made a noise in the back of his throat as he grabbed the hand and twisted around, bending his attacker so they were in reversed positions. A few of the other pirates surged forward, but a clear sharp whistle coming from behind John caused them to stop, though they looked like they still wanted to beat his face in.

He took a look around, not letting go of the man he still held. No one spoke for awhile as John who was much smaller than the other men around him continued to pin the arm behind the man's back. He realized he was breathing heavily, but he didn't turn around to face whoever had caused them to stop. He obviously held some power if he could do that.

"A shame we can't compromise-" said a deep velvety voice behind John. He had a feeling it was the same man who had whistled.

"Yeah, a real shame," John said with a hint of anger. The tone of voice he was taking on wouldn't help the situation but he didn't honestly care at this point. These pirates had invaded his ship and they were going to pay.

The man he was still pinning glanced back and a smile crept onto his twisted face. "You better look back Brit-" he said to him with a toothless grin.

John narrowed his eyes at him making it clear that if he tried to twist out of his grip he would rip his arm out of its socket. He stole a quick glance back and his resolve broke completely at what he saw.

The captain was on his knees, his face bloody withs cuts and his hat flattened in front of him. He looked like he was trying to not cringe but anyone could tell he was clearly in pain.

"Captain-" he said softly.

"My man for yours," the deep voice said. John didn't take his eyes off the captain, but he nodded after a while and released the man he was pinning. "Ah, I'm glad we could reach that bargain. Now for our side of the deal-"

John saw out of his peripheral vision that the man who had whistled gestured for one of the pirates forward. The man stepped up to the captain and in one swift move, the captain's head was struck clean off.

"No!" John screamed and took a leap forward but the man he had pinned before tackled him from behind and sent them both sprawling on the deck of the Gloria Scott. His shoulder dug into the wooden deck below, and he cried out in pain. He felt tears running down his cheeks but he could barely feel them over the throbbing throughout his chest.

His captain was dead. Dead, and never coming back. Which now made him in control, but pinned to the deck he was as good as the boards below him.

Someone above him tisked disapprovingly. "A shame we couldn't come to terms. He seemed like a nice old chap."

John gritted his teeth, looking up blearily to the man. "You good for nothing pirate, I swear if I ever get out of this I'll have the king-"

"Now now-" Said the man, dismissing the man pinning John. "I don't think that will be happening, seeing that you're under my control." The man paused. "Lestrade, get him to his feet-"

"Yes captain-" the man pinning John before said with an elated tone. "Up now Brit," he said, swiftly yanking John up from his feet.

Looking to his right, John saw the rest of his crew being shackled and thrown down into the holding cells below deck. "You have no right to use our own ship to contain us-" John said, surprised to hear his own voice.

"I, by all means have the right." The man said, stepping before John. John didn't look up.

"Why are you doing this?" He heard the man smile. "I'm a pirate. We do little less."

Letting out a deep breath, John managed to raise his head to see the man. What he saw took his breath away.

A pale, tall figure stood before him, high black buckled boots covering his feet, loose, flowing pants ripped at the bottom. His deep purple shirt was buttoned only halfway up his chest, leaving part of him bare. The coat the went over his shirt was a black color, the collar up, unbuttoned.

John managed to look up further and saw a huge pirate hat with a red feather adorning from it top the man's head. His eyes found their way the pirate's face, that included sharp cheekbones, pale skin, wide, smooth lips that had that healthy light pink color. His hair was dark and curly, longer than what was necessary, but at the same time fitting. John found his eyes locking on his, which were the color of a stormy sea, green, blue, and a color John couldn't quite put his finger on.

Saying that this man was gorgeous was an understatement.

John swallowed quickly, trying to forget that last thought. The man's expression flashed with something strange but John couldn't tell what.

"George put him below with the others. In his own cell-" the man said.

"It's Greg," the man holding John mumbled as he shoved him toward the stairs leading bellow.

"I should at least have the courtesy of knowing who is capturing me an my crew," John blurted as he yanked him head to face the man.

The pirate smiled, white teeth forming a beautiful grin. "The name's Sherlock Holmes-"


	2. Chapter 2

Usually this sort of thing didn't happen to him. He was careful, he was calculated. And he didn't know how to react to it.

Actually, it had never happened to him. Feelings, that is.

Sherlock sighed. He had never felt anything, ever. He had trained himself to shut down, to not want to be like everyone else, to be separated from the crowd. But today had been different. Today he had met someone who he couldn't shut down his feelings for. He didn't even know his name, he hadn't asked. But the man knew his, and that was enough.

"Sir?" Came a small knock on the door.

"What-" he barked. He was in no mood to see anyone at the moment. He had far too many feelings to whittle through.

"It's Anderson sir-"

"Yes yes alright," Sherlock croaked as the door opened. The officer walked in sheepishly, standing as close to the door as possible. "

It's one of the prisoner's sir. That man who pinned Greg." Anderson paused. "He's demanding to see you, just to talk."

The poor boy looked frightened as he explained, shaking like a leaf. "Let him up then. Lestrade can bring him in."

"Yes sir-" Anderson said before dashing out the door. Sherlock sighed again. Most of the crew was fearful of him. Then again, that was the image he wanted to portray to those he felt weren't as capable as him. Minutes passed like slow agonizing stabs to his chest as he waited in his chair. Finally there was a sharp knock on the door, indicating that Lestrade had made his way here.

"Come in-" he called out, taking a deep breath as the door slowly swung open.

Lestrade's head appeared out of the doorway. "Prisoner's here to see you captain-"

"So I've been informed," Sherlock paused. "Yes, alright, come in."

Lestrade ducked back outside and another man was shoved through, a nasty cut over his left eye. Without meaning to Sherlock jumped up a little too quickly, but he recovered by plastered a casual expression onto his face.

"Captain Holmes, Captain Watson here would like to talk to you. About what I haven't the faintest-"

"Fine." He gave Lestrade a look that asked what had happened to this man that he was now hurt, and if he had done it. The first officer just shrugged, a sad look on his face, and slowly walked out. The heavy cabin door shut behind him.

There was silence. Sherlock glanced at the prisoner, but he was looking down at the floor, his cut still bleeding profusely. "Presuming by what Lestrade said, you're former first officer of this ship?" He was surprised to hear his voice sound so filled with emotion. Usually he sounded as hard as stone.

"Yes-" responded the Captain. "After you slayed my former captain." His voice sounded bitter and full of contempt, but Sherlock pretended to ignore it.

"Ah, still upset over that." He responded, this time sounding like his usual self. The man looked up, his blonde hair disheveled in a manner that made something in Sherlock's chest leap. He blinked at him and turned to get a glass of whiskey for himself.

"So why do this?" Asked the man.

"Why do what?" Sherlock drawled. For what ever reason he felt compelled for the man to keep talking.

"Take over a navy ship and raid it, taking the crew hostage, making people feel helpless and-" the man's voice broke with emotion. A tugging in his chest made him turn back to the man, only to see tears welling up in his bright blue eyes.

Sherlock sighed, unprepared for this sort of thing. "Pirates have to make a living too. No one understands that-"

"They would if you weren't such horrible human beings, taking whatever you can grab," He looked up at the man.

"What's your name Captain-"

"Well I'm not anymore since you've taken over my bloody ship-"

Sherlock clenched his teeth slightly, setting down his glass. "A name, any at all-" There was a long pause as Sherlock stared down at his drink, and the man stared at him.

"Watson, John Watson-" Sherlock looked up, to see him looking at him intently, but not with hate, something more... complicated. He hated complicated when it came to people. He could read any and everyone in seconds but reading people was not a skill he possessed .

"Simple name," Sherlock managed as he cleared his throat and drank a swig of whiskey to keep his mind distracted by something other than the man standing in front of him.

"For a simple man I suppose-" John mumbled quietly, blinking a few times to get the tears from his eyes. They slid down his smooth cheeks so slowly that Sherlock couldn't help but watch them in fascination. It was quiet for some time as Sherlock watched the man gaze off, thinking of something else, off in a different world than his cabin.

"I hope the crew have been treating you well?" Sherlock said quickly as to not reflect that he seemed to be showing compassion.

"Not very, not that you would seem to care." John said, his lips pressed tightly together.

Sherlock sighed. "On the contrary to what everyone assumes, I have a heart. Although I've been informed an inconclusive number of times that I don't have one." He looked pointedly at Watson. "I would love to hear what they've done and I myself can judge whether it is fair treatment or not-"

The man huffed indifferently. Attitude was not something Sherlock liked on his ship, but he barely noticed and let him speak. "Well, to start, my crew has been carelessly thrown into the cells below deck, wrists and feet still bound together so that they cannot move." He looked disdainfully at Sherlock. "I don't exactly appreciate you taking over my bloody ship, but ill be damned if I'm to sit here, useless, while my crew is mistreated like prisoners. It seems to me in this situation that I should not ask of you to show some empathy, since you have indeed taken us captive, but some mercy, any at all, is at least somewhat expected of you. Captain." He said the last word with clenched teeth, as if he couldn't bear the thought of Sherlock being the one in control of this situation.

He sat in thought for a few moments. "While this is news to me, is it shocking to you that pirates would do anything but that John?"

"Don't call me that-"

Sherlock smirked, amused and slightly taken aback by his tone of voice. "And why not? You do realize that, like it or not, I have the high ground and can do what I wish with your crew. A slight change in your attitude either way could sway me, John."

The other man clenched his jaw tightly as he looked to the ground, not saying a word.

"So, I think we have come to an understanding, haven't we? That unless you do as I say, nothing good will come of your men. It's in your power to change their fate Captain Watson." Sherlock paused, and set down his glass on one of the tables. He walked around behind John, and seeing his wrists tied together tightly behind his back, pulled out his knife and cut the ropes. John's hands slowly came to his front, and he gently rubbed the chaffed, open sores on his wrists.

He turned, his expression not one of contempt anymore. "Yes, I think we have Captain Holmes. I think we have indeed." He managed a small smile that, to Sherlock, didn't seem entirely forced. His eyes fell to his lips, and he quickly looked away, not believing his body would betray him and be so obvious.

"Lestrade will take you to the smaller cabin next door that is currently vacated. I usually don't like to treat guests like royalty but seeing as you're in his majesties navy, I can't help but," Sherlock paused, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Help you out."

John didn't speak for awhile, most likely stunned by what he had just said. "And- and am I to stay there? Until we are escorted to dry land?" Sherlock turned.

"Yes, and I would plan on staying there until we get you back to your country, not just land. It would be, what's the term you gentlemen use? It would be morally right to give you at least some mercy, any mercy."

For the first time, Sherlock felt as if he could live with himself as a person, not as just a mind like he always had. He turned back to John, trying to hide the elated mood he was now in by making his life infinitely better than what it would have been had Sherlock not intervened until he and his crew were gone. Stunned into silence, John's jaw hung open slightly as Lestrade pulled him out and told him to 'Get a move on Brit'. Sherlock watched as the heavy cabin door swung closed, letting a broad grin sweep across his face, and realizing for the first time that he would never be the same.

For better or for worse.


	3. Chapter 3

John could hardly believe his own luck. The luxury of a cabin he didn't deserve and had not in the least earned by his actions was already unexpected. But with his crew being treated, well, better than before, he hadn't any clue as to why these things were the way they were.

Maybe it was because Captain Holmes was in a good mood. Maybe it was because someone had slipped him something and the effects were just now kicking in.

Whatever the reason, luck had finally come John Watson's way, and nothing could stifle his elated mood at the moment.

"Captain Watson! You're being summoned for dinner," The first officer named Lestrade banged on his door and shouted in a loud voice. As if John had problems hearing or something.

"Alright, just let me change-"

"No time I'm afraid-"

"Yes, alright!" He shouted back, trying to suppress his quickly rising anger.

People and their manners on this bloody ship. It was driving him up a wall.

He flung his white cotton shirt off, throwing it onto the large bed in the corner, and rummaged through some drawers of the dresser to find something that fit better. The cotton shirt had rips and tears in it from his scuffle on the deck earlier that morning. His jaw still stung from hitting the wooden plank.

He tried to shake his head to clear his thoughts as he continued to search for a shirt. All there seemed to be were pants and belts. Finally, near the back of a top drawer he found a cream colored, long sleeve shirt. He slipped it over his head and looked in the mirror and sucked in a breath.

The shirt plastered itself to his muscular chest and torso, leaving barely any room left to move in it. He sighed and tucked in the shirt to his looser fitting pants he had put on from the dresser before. He glanced in the mirror one more time as he heard the familiar bang on the door again.

"Yes yes alright!" He shouted, running a shaky hand through his already disheveled hair, hoping he didn't see Captain Holmes down at the mess hall.

He didn't need to feel like he was being watched every few minutes.

§

As Lestrade lead him to what he assumed was the newly created mess hall of the ship, he thought about what had happened between himself and the other captain. He felt as though there had been something between them that he hadn't noticed until afterward. As if they had had a connection.

Maybe it was all in his mind, but he just felt as if he and Captain Holmes were meant to do something together, as if fate had tied them together for the long haul. Maybe not romantically, though if John wanted to be honest with himself, that's what he wanted.

He was so wrapped up into his thoughts that he nearly ran into the first officer. He hadn't even noticed they had reached where they needed to be.

"Now, I don't want your crew mingling with mine tonight Captain-" Lestrade said sourly, his face slightly angry.

"Your crew?" John asked with a bit too much snark. He should have kept his mouth shut. Before he knew what hit him, a fist connected with his gut and he doubled over. The blow hadn't been that hard but it hurt enough.

"That's for your attitude Watson-" Lestrade said, teeth clenched.

Just as John stood up, the same hand connected with his face, squarely in the nose. A crack sounded and blood immediately gushed from his nostrils and onto the thigh of his pant leg as he bent over. Clutching his nose with his hand, he steadied himself against the wall.

"And that's for getting too close to Captain Holmes." he said, his voice deathly with bitterness.

As if he wanted Holmes to himself...

John crinkled his face in confusion but decided to move on. He wiped a hand under his nose, which came away bloody. Disgusted, he stood up and brushed past the first officer and into the hall, where a sweet smelling aroma was coming from. Snaking through the throng of men, most taller than himself, he finally found the source of the scent, soup, and quickly took a helping from the other crew's cook.

He again wound his way through the men and saw a few he recognized. Stamford sat in the middle of a table, laughing joyfully as someone of lower ranking tried to chug down a whole bottle of rum without taking a breath. He was miserably failing and everyone around him thought him to be hilarious. John finally sat down at a table with a few senior officers. They continued to talk so he decided to sit down at the end as to not bother them. Almost immediately, there was a buzzing from the surrounding tables, and all conversation seemed to pause.

John glanced up, finding some heavily murderous looks from the officers, and most of the other crew members giving him looks of warning. One of the officers got up and made his way around to John.

"Did we say you could sit here?" He asked in a brutal voice. His face was scarred from what looked to be fishing hooks, his crooked nose bent too sharply to the left, and his pale blue eyes seemed to be sucked of all the happiness in them. He shrugged and was about to turn back to his food and take a beating when a hand grasped his shoulder and he whipped around, expecting the brutal man to punch him square in the face. Not that he couldn't take another hit to the nose.

Instead it was Lestrade, and his stare mirrored the officers'. "You are not welcome to sit here with my officers Watson." He yanked him back, causing John's food to be thrown to the ground.

Hot boiling rage suddenly clouded all ration thought in his brain as he suddenly burst out. "And why not? Give me a perfectly good reason why I am not allowed. I myself am a senior officer, a Captain for Christ's sake!" He shouted in the first officer's face. John being inches shorter than him didn't make the statement seem as threatening as he had wanted it to be.

By this point all eyes were on the two of them. There was no way John would come out in the other end unharmed so he steeled himself for the worst. Lestrade looked back it him, coming to the same conclusion.

"Not currently, I'm certain that title has been revoked-"

Hurt and anger mixed together in John's chest. "And who, by God, had the authority to do something as ridiculous as that?!"

"Our Captain of course! Only a bumbling idiot wouldn't be able to see that!" The first officers face was turned a light shade of red as he nearly shouted the words at John.

The two glared at each other, neither of them wanted to back down and look like a coward.

The door to the hall suddenly burst open and Captain Holmes stood there, looking so ordinary in just boots, a shirt, and pants, his coat and hat nowhere to be found.

At first all heads just turned to look at him but he could somehow tell what was going on.

John couldn't tear his gaze from him, not that he particularly wanted to at that moment, but something about him seemed so comfortable. He seemed to just fit his role perfectly, the right amount of leadership and authority.

Sherlock began to speak in his low velvety voice as he stepped into the hall more. "I've come to announce that tomorrow no crew members will be required to participate in daily tasks. Land is not far ahead and you will be allowed permission to leave for the day."

Cheers came from around John, but he didn't relax until the captain made his way over and clasped Lestrade's shoulder, the hint of a smile on his face. He must have been at least somewhat pleased to deliver the news. Maybe because that meant with land so close John and his crew would be leaving as well. For good.

"And what seems to be the problem?" He asked, his eyes seeming to pull the answer right out of the man.

"Um," Lestrade faltered, not prepared to answer him honestly. He looked over at John, as did the captain. He tried not to stare at him too much, but with his dark curls hanging on his forehead it was difficult not to be distracted.

"John?"

"Nothing sir." John glanced at the first officer. "Just a mild disagreement that you shouldn't concern yourself with."

There was silence among the three of them as conversation continued around them.

"Well alright. I suppose that's all. I'm taking my food back. Far too much daftness in one room." Holmes said and sauntered off to find some soup.

Both men watched the captain leave and turned back to one another. Lestrade spoke first.

"I think he's made his statement."

"He didn't say anything-" John said.

Lestrade sighed with a huff of indifference. "That's exactly what new comers don't understand. He knows about everything. What you ate for breakfast yesterday, what kind of relationship you're in, why you chose to be in the navy." He paused, a gleam in his eye. "Don't under estimate him, Watson."

"I shall do nothing of the sort." John glanced over at his crew, seeing that the barrels of whiskey in the corner were being restocked.

"Well, there's no point in rilling ourselves up again Lestrade." He gestured to the rum. "So lets try to enjoy ourselves and forget this."

Lestrade seemed skeptical at first, but slowly nodding after a time. "You've got me there. No sane man can say no to some rum." He smiled for the first time and the two of them made their way to the barrels.

Filling two glasses to the brim, Lestrade handed John one of them, and they toasted.

The rest of the night was a blur for John, but he remembered a fight he had stepped between and gotten socked in the face once again. He remembered someone sharing a story about how the men had stolen a girl from an island once, another man about how they had found a murderer on another, and how they had outwitted the British government from taxes. He wasn't sure if any of it was true or bullocks, but it seemed something Holmes would be capable of doing.

John stumbled out of the mess hall, trying to stay upright on his feet as a thought struck him. Land was close. He could go home, not that there was much home to go back except for his work in hospital, but still.

He should have been glad but most of him was tearing apart at the thought of leaving the captain. Maybe it was because he knew they shared their fate together, but maybe it was because he had feelings for him.

He just hoped he'd be capable of not making the mistake of loosing him.


	4. Chapter 4

It started as a slight stirring in his chest that he had a difficult time noticing. But as the seconds dragged into minutes that lengthened to hours, the stirring morphed into a scream. This was something new, something different. An emotion.

He didn't know how to react, let alone what he should do about it. Sherlock could hardly admit what he felt, what he wanted to do. Rashly acting on his feelings was foolish, something ordinary people did to change the situation.

Sherlock had no urges to change the situation, at least not right at this moment. Seeing John Watson did something to him, something human that made him feel normal, and not at all like himself. The man was a bloody navy captain, someone Sherlock could mingle with, but also couldn't keep himself away from.

Groaning, Sherlock ran a hand through his black curls, trying to control his thoughts but failing. When he tried to focus on something else, John always managed to wedge his way into his conscience, and Sherlock had no way to get him out. Not that he wanted to.

He knew deep down that eventually John would leave him, for good. And he couldn't look like the weak one and want him to stay.

He had to push him away, soon.

Unfortunately, it wasn't that easy. Anyone else was easy to ignore, was easy to forget. But John was a face he couldn't put out of his mind; it was etched there like stone. He knew ever crevice, every wrinkle, every smile line on his face. He knew exactly how he would react to certain situations, and he knew what he seemed to be feeling. Usually he felt it with him.

He wasn't sure what this was, what it was called, but somehow he felt as if they were connected. Sherlock doubted that John felt the same way, or that he even knew that Sherlock felt anything, but he didn't care. Just being around the man made him feel secure, as if he could do no wrong.

John made him feel safe. Not that Sherlock had felt anything safe in years, since leaving England and his notable reputation.

Not that he cared. Reputation was something that superficial, unimportant people thought was important. His brother Mycroft fell into that group unfortunately.

His eyes shifted to the small widow in his ceiling, where bright stars twinkled down at him, dragged him into memories. Memories of playing pirates with his dog and brother. Memories of his brother shutting him out during school and never coming out again to play. Memories of being forced to grow up because there was nothing left to do.

Sherlock closed his eyes and slammed his fist onto the side table, his drink splashing precariously onto the floor boards. He would not dwell on his past. He couldn't. It only set him back. He couldn't allow himself to feel.

Feeling only made things more complicated. He had learned that the hard way.

No, he had to push John away. It would rip Sherlock apart and crush his heart, but there was nothing else to do. Nothing else he could do to stop what would end in disaster. If he couldn't stop it now, he would never regain control. And he couldn't let that happen. He couldn't hurt John by overreacting.

It was best to do it now before they went down the rabbit hole further.

Making up his mind, he leaned over and casually picked up the fallen glass, and stood up to fill it with a splash of whiskey. Unfortunately as he did so, his ears perked up to the noise coming from the dining hall. It sounded like animals in there. Of course, that's what pirates were.

He sighed. God only knew what John thought of his crew.

He quickly swallowed his last bit of drink and placed the glass onto the table again. Slowly taking off his shirt, he draped the sown fabric onto a chair and left his pants on the ground. He glanced in the mirror to see himself in a pair of boxers for a moment before looking away. He never liked to stare at himself to long. Those moments only reminded him how much of a freak he was.

Sherlock pulled a white cotton shirt over his head and managed to lie down under a sheet. The rocking of the boat combined with the warm bed had his mind drifting off and falling asleep in minutes.

§

A loud bang on his cabin door had him jarred awake in moments and sitting up as anger courses through his veins. What the bloody hell was going on? Did his crew know anything about peace and quiet?

He rolled his eyes and lied back down, trying to drown out the noise. Was the party still raging at this hour? It must have been about mid-morning judging from the darkness outside and the position of the stars.

Just as he was trying to close his eyes again, the bang came again from the direction of his door. Ripping the sheet away, he stalked towards the door and roughly opened it.

What he found was John, standing there in a tan shirt that was plastered to his body, blood running down the front of it, drunk as a sailor, so to speak, with a wide grin stretching across his face.

"Hello sir!" He exclaimed, his smile widening. His eyes looked dilated beyond recognition, the blue irises covered in black. His breath smelt of cheap rum, hair disheveled, nose bleeding, and his legs swayed beneath him.

"John?" Sherlock heard his voice ask as he opened the door wider, looking John up and down slowly.

"Have you forgotten my name already?" John teased him, and he gently walked into his cabin, swaying ever so slightly.

Still in shock, Sherlock managed to shut the door, but glanced out onto the deck. No one else was in sight.

"Everyone else is gone Sher-" John hiccuped. "lock-"

"In the dining hall-"

"Yes." John paused, his eyes flashing with something. Something that settled in the room and left a blanket of coolness that caused a shiver to run down Sherlock's spine.

He shouldn't have been there. Why had he come? Did he know what Sherlock planned to do? Had he realized Sherlock's feelings for him?

Worry lurched in his stomach at the thought that he knew, and caused him to stay by the door and as far away as possible from John.

"I don't bite you know-" John said in a low tone. His eyes flashed again, this time with a twinge of anger.

Sherlock stayed quite, not sure what to say or what to do. He only knew that he had to make John leave.

"You know, I always thought you were a bloody awful person." John's voice was laced with sadness which masked the pain behind it. "I suppose I didn't realize that their could be more to a pirate-"

The silence in the room was deafening.

Sherlock managed to swallow, and he glanced behind him at the door, wondering if he should leave.

"Worried much?" John slurred, his eyes running up and down Sherlock.

He glanced down at himself to find that the boxers were tight around his hips, due to the growing hard-on he had. He quickly tugged the long cotton shirt down over it and combed a hand nervously through his hair.

Glancing at John, he managed to tug on his pants and tie the sash around his waist with as much pride as he could muster in his current state.

As he turned around, John was casually sitting in his velvet chair, Sherlock's drink glass in his hand.

"Got any rum then?" He asked, his eyes wandering from the glass to Sherlock and back again.

"Whiskey," Sherlock heard himself respond with. His feet forced him to move over to the drink cupboard in the corner to grab the large, half-empty, bottle of whiskey. He poured both of them a drink and turned around to hand John his.

The man hadn't moved from his chair and his eyes were stilled locked on Sherlock.

He managed to hand John the drink without dropping it. But he paused before moving, looking down at John, trying to memorize his face so he would never forget. Apparently John had the same idea in mind because they looked at each other for a minute before Sherlock looked away.

Just as he was about to sit on the love seat, a hand clamped onto his wrist. He stopped and stared down at the fingers that ensnared his. It was quiet for a moment before a drunk voice hit his ears.

"Sherlock-" John said so quietly Sherlock almost leaned back to hear him.

He set down his glass and faced the former captain, his face trying to stay stone-like but failing miserably. John's expression darkened as he stared up at Sherlock, his disheveled hair the only thing Sherlock tried to focus on. Sherlock knew that look. He had never seen it given to him, but he'd seen it between couples that flounced their affections.

Without thinking he automatically shook his head. He didn't want John to mangle his reputation by doing something he regretted in a drunken state. He didn't want John to make Sherlock feel something in this darkened room and then leave him. He didn't want anything to happen, but he also needed it to happen.

He saw a smile flick across John's face, a brief, stupid smile, but a smile none the less.

"You're blind aren't you?" John whispered, the smile turning into something sad. For a moment, Sherlock stood paralyzed, his eyes fixed on John's eyes.

"Don't you understand how I feel?" John whispered again, a look of love and lust burning in his expression. "How I felt from the moment I met you Sherlock?" He paused, shaking his head and gingerly bringing a hand to his hair.

The world seemed to stop as John's mouth formed the words that would change everything.

"I think I'm-" he furrowed his brow in utter confusion, clearly questioning what he was doing. "What I mean is," he licks his lips and looks straight into Sherlock's eyes, not wavering. "I think I'm in love with you-"

Sherlock inhaled sharply, his chest drumming in a violent staccato as his heart thrummed away inside of him. This couldn't happen, not now, not ever.

"John-" Sherlock found his voice, small and quiet. "John I-"

John groaned as he stumbled backward, almost knocking the glass table with a thundering crash to the ground but Sherlock lurched forward and firmly grasped his waist.

"John?" Panic laced his voice and filled the room with dread.

"Sherlock-" John said weakly, his eyes never quite fixing on Sherlock's face. The side effects of alcohol.

He leaned John toward him, trying not to touch him too much as he gently carried him to his bed in the corner. Laying him down gently, he took John's shoes off and draped the sheets over him.

John's face looked far away but he managed to hold Sherlock's hand before he drifted away. "Sherlock-"

"Shhh," He found himself whispering to him softly. "It's alright."

He gripped his hand tighter, trying to comfort him, never having been good at this sort of thing. But with John it felt different, not forced, just different.

Whatever John was going to say, he changed his mind and closed his eyes, his blonde eyelashes fluttering rapidly as he fell asleep. Without meaning to, Sherlock felt himself lean forward and gently kiss John, as light as he was able to. He closed his eyes, trying to remember the softness of his lips, the shallow breath he took every once in awhile, and the thump of his heart in his chest. After awhile he pulled back, sure that John was asleep.

He sighed, slowly tracing his lips and where John's mouth had made contact with his. He felt almost euphoric as he sat there, a drunk man in his bed, a kiss on his lips, and a sense of calm that seemed to still the churning waters below them.

Whatever was to happen next, he knew that it would turn for the worst. It always did after something as blissful as this.


End file.
